


SUB ROSA

by delibell



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 90s AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dark Academia, Dark Academia AU, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Partying, Professor Loki (Marvel), Sum Nat/Bruce as a treat, Teacher-Student Relationship, This is an AU, Uhmmmmmm yeaaa, Worshipping literature, YOUNG! Wanda just wants to be loved, YOUNG!Tony Stark is an asshole, and all that jazz!, non-superhero, this fic is...a lot, young avengers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23511535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: ☾ 𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖑 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝖆𝖈𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖆 𝖆𝖚 ˖ 𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖆𝖚 ˖ 𝖒𝖞𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖞【 (adv.) happening or done in secret, privately or confidentially. [latin sub rosā, under the rose (from the practice of hanging a rose over a meeting as a symbol of confidentiality) : sub, under + rosā, ablative of rosa, rose.] 】☾ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: the mysterious disappearance of (name) (lastname) shocks the students of the prestigious pembury university. her three friends -- tony, wanda, and bucky -- try to figure out what had happened by enlisting the help of her professor, loki laufeyson.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Tony Stark/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	1. INTERLUDE;

☾ **tony x f!reader, bucky x f!reader, wanda x f!reader, loki x f!reader**

☾ 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: uses of alcohol and drugs, sexual themes, death themes

☾ 𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘: english, very extremely minimal latin

☾ **in case you’ve forgotten how the young avengers looked!** : [tony ](https://data.whicdn.com/images/334731722/original.jpg)˖ [bruce ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f7/e9/e0/f7e9e0adc7c298d897c7ed7432d2befd.jpg)˖ [nat ](https://i.imgur.com/OQ2AlXt.jpg)˖ [wanda ](https://www.thenyindependent.com/film/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/LizzieOlsen1.jpg)˖ [steve ](https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/gettyimages-159822694-1525268381.jpg?crop=1xw:1xh;center,top&resize=480:*)˖ [bucky ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e6/87/e6/e687e683fc265a369a3598ea12983b58.jpg)˖ [pietro](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/03/b7/41/03b741e8fbecf585bc006eb60fac4e93.jpg)

☾ 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖘: _ongoing_ :  
 ** _[gifs](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fimgur.com%2Fa%2F6Fzmq&t=YzFlMjU1ZTc0ZjA0OTZjODRlMDc2ZmY4Zjk5NDlkOTQxMzU4NTI1NCw2NDI0MmZlMWUwY2ExZTk0ODQyYzlhOWJmOTY1ZjdmYjMyODk5YTFj)_** ** _by bandeau on wattpad!_**

* * *

𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖗𝖊𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘 (you do not need to know or have read any of these to enjoy the story, but i’m putting them here anyway in case you’re curious and want to check them out by yourself!) **:**

**˖** [ **if we were villains** ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.scribd.com%2Fbook%2F367031649%2FIf-We-Were-Villains&t=NjNhMDdjOWFiYTYxNzdmODZkODZjYzI4YTMyZWNjZmE2ODc1ODllMiw0YWIzMjMxOWE1NTBhZTA2MjlmYzU0MTc2ZDRiYTA1NmNiYjE5YTI4)

**˖** [ **th**](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fbook%2Fshow%2F29044.The_Secret_History&t=ZGU2N2MwMTMwYWM0Mjg4Y2YwYzA1MzQ5MTE0MzZmMTE0OTViOTFmOSw5MDM0MjE1YTA0ODI5MWQzNDgzNWI1M2RkNDI3MmQwZjMzNTk2NWQ2)[ **e secret history** ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fbook%2Fshow%2F29044.The_Secret_History&t=ZGU2N2MwMTMwYWM0Mjg4Y2YwYzA1MzQ5MTE0MzZmMTE0OTViOTFmOSw5MDM0MjE1YTA0ODI5MWQzNDgzNWI1M2RkNDI3MmQwZjMzNTk2NWQ2)

**˖[kill your darlings](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.sonyclassics.com%2Fawards-information%2Fkillyourdarlings_screenplay.pdf&t=NDU5MjgwNjBjODNjNDhkNWFiYmQxYTBiMzIwMzhlZWJkOTk0MTcwMCwzYTZmMGJiODMwMTNmODE3MGMwZWI3MWIwYTdjZjBmODMwYzI4Yjc1)**

**˖[kubla khan](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.poetryfoundation.org%2Fpoems%2F43991%2Fkubla-khan&t=Mzk2ZjhmNjlkNmE4OTE3Mzk4ZTI0ZWYzNDZhN2ZlMTFiZDI5ZjUxNyxkMTk3NDE5ZmJhNTBjOTkwY2NmNjFhZWQ3YmNhOWFmZDYyNTczZDI0)**

**˖[a cohesive list of latin phrases](https://66.media.tumblr.com/96f60551749d7e854f5103bc5ba5525e/tumblr_pj9n5zgOCO1v6srs1_540.jpg)**

**˖[hecaterides](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.theoi.com%2FNymphe%2FNymphaiHekaterides.html&t=NzMxMDVkYjI1MTgwMzg4ZDI2MTIwZGY0OTU1ZGMwMWM4YzAxZWVmOCxiNjcwYmUyZTYzNTkyNTM0YWEzNmFmMTI4YmU2YWIwYmY1ZTdmMzE2)**

**˖[the myth of hades and persephone](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.greekmyths-greekmythology.com%2Fmyth-of-hades-and-persephone%2F&t=NjBmNjhmMGJkYmRmNDQ0ZDliZDExYzA5YjUxMTYxMjFhNDcwNjUwMSw2NTI4YjA3NzJmODUxOGYyZGNjZDZlYmI1ZmRjYjE1YjIwMWJjYTc4)**

* * *

𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝖕𝖎𝖊𝖈𝖊:

There were five of you, at the start. You, a soft voiced, dreamy-eyed pupil of English, studying in the most prestigious little somewhere amidst wild nature and lonely faced statues; Anthony, tall, flirtatious, awfully pretentious and always wearing and expensive ironed suit, muttering math equations and never failing to point out the flaws in most simple logic; Steve, a well built student of Politics whose kind face twisted into a fanatic frown at the mere mention of injustice; Robert, of shy disposition and awkward walk, always dragging along at least one Chemistry tomb; and Natasha, from the department of Psychology, a vixen with vivacious red hair and a catlike look that could read you at first glance as easily as a book. At the start neither of you got along: Steve was too passionate for Anthony, Robert was a pushover, Natasha fancied making your head spin. And how this friendship formed you cannot place in an accurate timeline, in one defining moment. The five of you were thrown together by chance and became something equally as magnificent as terrifying.

The halls are old and smell of chalk. Deep green tones complement the dark waxen wood and your ghostly face reflects on black-white checkered tiles. It’s late. The moon hangs like jewel. Warm yellow lights illuminate the otherwise empty space. Your footsteps echo. The English department is as silent as a grave, and no one should really wander around this late but ghost and ghouls. Alas, you finally reach the class, the one down the hall with the rose painting inside it, the one no one ever uses. You stop by the door and fix your hair before knocking seven times in a mellow pattern. A secret code. Without it you would never be able to get in.

The door creaks open and Steve smiles when he realizes it’s you. He steps aside and you enter, hearing bits and pieces of ending conversation. Once the door closes the students turn to you. Anthony, in his rightful place, at the center (always the most important once, he should’ve studied theater with his love of theatrics and drama), turns to you with a wine glass in hand and smirks; Bruce merely waves from one of the empty seats; Natasha takes a sip of her drink and winks. You note an unfamiliar figure sat beside her and the two of you lock eyes.

“Finally.” Anthony breaks the silence, his tone weaving between annoyance and amusement. You shoot him a glare. He merely raises a brow, “You are always late. This is your department.”

“Aw, Tony, can’t stand anyone stealing your spotlight?” Natasha questions in a sing like tone.

“As if anyone could.” He mumbles into his wine.

“This is Wanda.” Steve explains behind you and you startle at his gentle voice. You stalk to the woman and extend your hand to her, which she shakes with an uncertain smile. From up close, her features obscured by the dimness of the room, she looks lovely-eyes, death-touched — a _witch_.

“Pleasure.” You mutter before pulling away. Natasha shoves a drink into your hand.

“She and her twin brother enrolled this September.” Steve explains.

“She’s not mute, Steve.” Anthony drones, hopping on the teacher’s table and loosening his tie, “Let her speak.”

“I—“ Steve’s cheeks burn purple in the moonlight, “I—never…”

The tension is cut off with Natasha’s laugh. The whole room stops to listen.

“You two are too cute.” She says, then turns to you, “What were you doing?”

“Reading.” You state simply.

“You can read?” Anthony questions.

You frown, “You can _rot_.”

“Is it… always this lively?” Wanda asks.

“They’re usually trying to stab each other by now. This is pretty tame, so far.” Steve mutters.

“That’s because I hid all the knifes.” Bruce pipes up.

“Traitor.” Anthony hisses, “How will I cut up my toast now?”

“Ask your maid?” You inquire, pleased at his dismay. He scoffs. “Anyway—“ As entertaining as it is to irritate him, more pressing matters are at hand, “I did not know we were recruiting new members.” Your tone is matter-o-fact, though not unkind. Wanda stiffens under your stare, “Do pray tell, why are you here?”

“Because I want answers.”

“To what?”

“Everything.”

_Ah_!, you think. All of you have gathered here for the exact same thing. _Knowledge_. To seek answers to questions that cannot be explained yet; to reach a higher plain of consciousness; to become the modern day equivalents of Greek Gods.

You smile at her and it is the first genuine smile she has received today, “Well then. You will fit in nicely.”

* * *


	2. KUBLA KHAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony Stark learns of the mysterious disappearance of (Name) (Lastname).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this first chapter is from tony’s pov and we’ll move around pov’s since this plot is just misprt. i copied my own damn plot. plagiarism. all of my profs are currently screaming and don’t know why. yes i am unoriginal. also hope y’all don’t mind that i feature drugs but like dark academia without drugs is no academia soooo haha have fun! this is also an introductory chapter so i needed to cover a lot of things but smooth sailing onward! hope you’ll like this chapter and all that are to come. 
> 
> feedback is always welcomed!!!

> **F** or those we love, we suffer. And it is Anthony’s –the affectionate shortening _Tony_ reserved for friends, fans, and acquaintances– luck that he finds you simply intolerable, for what is to come is worthy of it’s very own film.

He could have finished Pembury and possibly three other universities in a year or so – he is a genius and that is an undeniable fact. But he chose to stay in the massive building located somewhere in the wilderness of Vermont, chose to rot with the rest of them in the cold, massive halls and small, stuffed classrooms. Though on many occasions he, driven to acts of harmless violence – throwing books, cups, tearing papers, snapping pens and pencils – decided firmly to ditch those four boring years of easy study and simply get his Ph.D. in a week or two. And he could easily do it: he has the money (not that he needs it to get into Ivy League) and virtually no shame. But after he calms and collects his scattered belongings he does not follow through with his hissed promises. He stays in Pembury, he lives in his shared dorm room, he eats the cafeteria food, and spends his afternoon’s smoking in the lounge or devouring material in the library. And in the dust covered silence between books, blank pages, and ink stains, he ponders why he is truly here.

One thing comes to mind instantly: he is _adored_ , a local star, popular to the point of mania. He gets along with everyone that can endure his petty quips and sarcasm, and he has many friends, though only a few close ones. There is Robert Banner, his roommate, an awkward chemist with wild brown hair and kind brown eyes; Natasha Romanov, a round faced, doe-eyed little creature whose gentle disposition is nothing but a sham to hide the absolute _venom_ that hides underneath – psychology student and all, can read any minuscule movement of your body and tell you exactly why your father doesn’t love you; Steve Rogers, that tall all American historian, is a close friend too despite their frequent arguments – Rogers’ a pacifist, and Tony loves getting on his nerves; and…you. Though calling you a friend rather than arch nemesis would be untruthful. While others usually allow him to indulge in his ego, you are quick to challenge him; quick to berate him when he makes a mistake; quick to dispute his theories and present your own, all while wearing a sweet little smile and a look that clearly says “ _I’m better_ ”.

_It was a typical rainy day, ominous clouds gathering in the spring sky in promise of more – thunder, lightning, mixture of heaven and earth. There was electricity in the air, static, he felt it on his skin, in his bones, and it made him somehow restless in his seat at the front of an almost empty classroom. It was their annual meetup, annual secret allocation of mysteries they had discovered in their short journey through life. Despite your differences you all shared three things in common – money, ambition, and curiosity. The five of you could move mountains, destroy lives, bring back the dead if you put your minds to it. It might sound comical, but as Tony’s sharp eyes gazed at every face present– you, Steve, Nastasha, and Bruce –he knew that it was possible. That somehow, someday, one of you will come with a look of crazed wonder and say, “I figured it out.”_

_He plopped a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, gaze settled on the outside world: the woods, the wilderness, the ever present pull, a wordless invitation to explore it. Hypnotic. He thought he almost saw someone or_ something _darting between the trees before he looked away. He knew better than to follow through with this strange allure. Staring at it is like staring into a void. If he’s not careful enough, it will suck him in._

_A few rapid knocks on the table startled him, “Anthony.” Your curt voice rung, and knitting his brows together he hummed, irritated at your sharp, relentless tone. “Done daydreaming?”_

_“Almost.” He cut back with the same venom, “Though now I guess it’s more of a nightmare, isn’t it?”_

_“They’re at it again!” Came Bruce’s tired whimper, though no one paid him much mind. You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes narrowed, glinting with murderous thunder. The same electric buzz he had felt all day intensified, trapped by your challenging stare, begging to be released._

_“I just don’t understand,” You started, voice even, head held high, “why do we need_ him _? Bruce is more than enough.” Your tone shifted into a softer note, head tilting slightly to shoot a pleasant smile the brown haired boy’s way. Tony rolled his eyes, sighing heavily in frustration._

_“I can ask the same thing.” He hissed, “How are little fairy tales gonna help us?”_

_“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Nat groaned, face hidden in her palms._

_“Little fairy tales?” You repeated in disbelief, arms trembling. He smirked. Hit a sore spot, “Listen here, you arrogant, selfish prick. Without my little fairy tales we would not even know where to start. Or do you recon those who have succeeded left a few frilly math equations for you to solve and be done with? That it’s_ that _easy?” Your mocking did not sit well with him, and he was about to spit a harsh reply but you cut him off, retreating, suddenly awfully troubled, your eyes, the strangest (color) he had ever seen, now cast at the darkness seeping through the cracks of the trees, “_ Ars longa, vita brevis _. Accept the fact that not everything can be explained with logic.” You stalked to the window, arms still crossed, thoughtful._

_Steve was by your side in an instant, his arm landing gently on your shoulder. You gave him a faint smile, though it never quite reached your eyes, and Tony watched the whole exchange with a clenched jaw. It irked him, why he could not say yet, but with huff he threw another grape into his mouth and stood up, stalking to the blackboard and yanking some chalk, sending a flurry of white dust his way._

_“New plan, then.” He said nonchalant, as if the whole exchange never happened, writing it all down. He turned to the class, four pairs of eyes curiously watching his next movements, “If we can’t find the fucking stones…” His eyes then briefly landed on you before he glanced away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you, “We make them ourselves.”_

He thinks he could miss you if he was to leave. He thinks that there aren’t many who have the wits to keep up with him… or that many that enjoy silly poems and fictitious stories with such devout adulation and unyielding passion.

He almost hears it, the sound of your voice, or perhaps he does hear it and that’s why he turns from his essay and looks around. The library is silent, nothing but scribbles, odd cusses, and the rain pattering against the glass. Whatever sign of you he had imagined was, as it seems, truly a hallucination, most likely due to his lack of sleep. Wood and leather creak under him as he pushes his chair closer to the table, intending to focus and get back to work…Perhaps he _does_ miss you, as much as one can miss someone he hates. He had not seen you since yesterday evening when you excused yourself from dinner without even touching your food. He can see it, your red sweater, weaving through tweed and cashmere like a woolen poppy before you were lost behind the big wooden doors. He usually catches you by the main building – completely by accident – at around 9 o’clock when both of you are late to class in different departments. He did not catch you today, nor did you come to lunch either.

“ _She’s probably studying_.” was Natasha’s indifferent reply before the topic at hand – the analysis and interpretation of Robert’s strange dream – continued. It was a terrible afternoon. _Boring_. With no one to quibble with he was forced to annoy the two possible lovers and neither of them had the energy to entertain him. Robert yielded too easily, Nat simply raised a brow and Tony knew that somehow she had figured out his biggest secret. Or perhaps she just wore that expression as a warning sign to back away. There is no telling what she’s thinking, ever. After lunch he retreated to the library and has not left since.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, shutting his books one by one and regarding his unfinished essay with mild displeasure. He cannot focus, though to his credit, he did not think taking up biochemistry as a hobby would be so…tiring. His three porcelain cups of half-finished coffee – he got distracted, one cup got cold, went to get another, the story continued – lay mocking him and he does not have it in him to clean up the mess he has created. Absolute chaos all around him. It will take at least an hour to return all the books and papers, let alone washing the dishes. He looks around the gloomy library, stands up abruptly, and cranks his neck for any signs of life. In the nest of bookshelves sits a small table with a mellow yellow lamp and by it a student, one from the Literature department, Tony has seen you sometimes talking with him.

He approaches in a casual step, rapping his knuckles on the table to get the boy’s attention.

“Oh!” He whispers, eyes wide behind his glasses, “Hello, Tony.”

“Yeah, hey, listen, could you clean up my table? I’m kinda in a hurry.” From his pocket he fishes out a hundred dollar bill and puts it between the pages of Keats’ poetry. The student blinks at him a few times, then gulps, lastly nods, somewhat embarrassed, somewhat confused. Tony flashes him a smile, “Great, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

The air is wet and fresh and cold against his skin, as he stands between the arches in the courtyard, a roof over his head, watching grey rain falling, obscuring, dyeing the already gloomy colors of Pembury and even darker, uglier shade. Some passing students wave at him, some smile and whisper hello before entering the main building, others ungracefully run down the yard in hopes of reaching the dormitories before they are soaked. He doubts anyone actually succeeded in that. Pembury is, by all means, a small university, with little over a thousand students including the staff. It used to be an all private boys school in the 1920s until someone with money came in and made it one of the most expensive, prestigious places in America. The enrollment process is notoriously difficult, and he supposes the curriculum would be tough too if he had half the brain he has. He does not know exactly what drew him here – perhaps the wilderness surrounding it, the tall looming trees reaching for the sky, the lack of civilization, the _mystery_ – but he only sometimes regrets it. And there’s this thing, a hazy, precious memory that had been haunting him for a long while – evident by the dark circles around his eyes, pale skin, a permanent frown plastered on his handsome face. He is stuck between regret and happiness, in perpetual anguish of not knowing the truth, whatever that truth might be.

_It was half past midnight somewhere fifteen miles from Pembury. Some brat with a lot of trust-fund threw an invitation only gathering, rager, bacchanal – drugs, alcohol, jazz, women, and all that shebang. It all happened in an old, two story apartment on an inky night, wild with stars, full moon abloom with its pale, sickly glow._

_He was on the second floor, surrounded by good liquor and imported cigarettes, talking to someone who considered him already a dear friend, but Tony cannot recall his face, or his name, or any particular interest in their conversation. His eyes kept drifting to the dancing nymphs in their silken dresses and red lips and flirtatious winks; then to the boys yelling loudly by the poker table – some bet thousands, some bet grams of coke, others giggled into their cards, faces contorted in bliss, veins alight with heroin. It was all hot and loud, heavily perfumed, covered in cigarette smoke. He glanced at his glass, at the bottomless pit, and it somehow appeared farther away than when he last saw it. He shrugged off the hand that was on his shoulder, slurred some excuse and pushed past the girls that had come to talk to him, his vision swimming as he staggered to the stairwell._

_The door shut behind him heavily and all sound diluted. It felt like taking a first breath of air once he was there, the dim, cold atmosphere a startling change from the playfully lit, hot room. The walls trembled, as if from some tribal drum, inviting him to go back. He could faintly hear remnants of a film playing downstairs – something underground and German – as he leaned onto the railing, drinking the last drops of bourbon before the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor._

_“Shit.” was all he said, not sounding very apologetic. He pushed from the railing, feeling pleasantly numb and mindless, intending to go back to the dancers and find either another drink or someone to get his hands occupied with when he noticed a figure leaning on the wall halfway down the stairs. It was_ you _. In a dress, hair done-up, make-up not yet smeared nor melted, though a light sheen of sweat covered your body and you were staring, unblinking, somewhere over his shoulder. Curious he glanced to his side, fully intending to find someone there, but there was no one, and so he raised a brow, drunk, yet still having enough sense in him to question your strange dull gaze. You had a glass of champagne in your hand, and even through his haziness he could tell you were gripping it tightly._

_He waved at you. And then he felt a bit stupid for doing so, so he laughed at himself, at this strange situation, at seeing you of all people in the loud center of ecstatic life. He figured you would enjoy something a bit more boring, like the library, or the local coffee shop, or anything else than this. Though he supposed that it isn’t too surprising finding you alone on the stairs, in the quietest part of the building. His fingers gripped the railing, more to steady himself than anything, and it was entirely instinct, because all thoughts were passing him in a slow, cloudy daze, never quite registering._

_“Hellloooo…” He cooed, trying to get your attention, “What are you doing?”_

_Finally, your attention was on him, and there was something intense about it, “Hi, Tony.”_

_That sobered him up, if a bit. You never called him Tony. It was well known he hated his real name, and so you used every dirty trick in the book to spite him. Perhaps you were drunk too,_ no _, you_ had _to be, because there is no way that you would miss an opportunity to ruin his night in any other case. That disappointed him a bit, though he could not deny that you calling him Tony made it sound more intimate, and he realized that the hatchet is buried, even if it’s for tonight._

_Too much space between you two is what he concluded, and he clumsily made his way down the stairs, all the while you watched him without saying a word. Once he finally was close enough, your perfume, the scent he could not quite place, something strong, like midnight, doused him, making his head spin. He leaned on the wall, eyes trailing the group of people that so happened to be going upstairs, and not until they disappeared did he say, “Who invited you?”_

_You shrugged, “I don’t know. Some asshole. You?”_

_“Yeah, same. What are you drinking?”_

_“Champagne. You broke your glass.”_

_It was his time to shrug, not at all bothered, “I’m sure it won’t be missed.” He regarded your features in unparalleled curiosity, as if seeing them up close for the first time – they were strangely neutral, blank, as if not a single thought circulated in that head of yours. Your signature spark, something he always found vexing, yet secretly somewhat envied, was missing without a trace. And your eyes, typically so quick and calculating, were dull – they saw nothing._

_You stood right next to him; yet again it felt as if you were miles away, forever out of his reach._

_Tony did not quite know what to talk to you about if you were not fighting, and he did not have enough cognition to start an argument, nor you to continue it. Growing somewhat impatient, he pointed upstairs, “Dance?”_

_You showed no signs of ever hearing him, though finally, once he was about to repeat his question, or just leave you, you said, “I’ll have to go to the bathroom first.”_

_And it all clicked with that. He released a surprised hum, half a smile pulling on the corner of his lips, “Well, well…Did not take_ you _for a cokehead.”_

_“I bet you don’t take me for a lot of things.”_

_“Are you always this cryptic when you’re high?”_

_“Yes. No. Maybe. I usually don’t talk to anyone when I am. I just think.”_

_“About?”_

_“Kubla Khan.”_

_“Is that a person?”_

_After what felt like an eternity you graced him with a smile, a beautiful, but condescending one, as if to say “Oh you stupid, stupid little boy” and walked up the stairs, an action he followed intently despite his better judgement. You stopped by the door, tilting your head to him, “Well?”_

_“Find you later, I need another drink.”_

_Hours passed like spilled wine and he forgot about you entirely, his attention devoured by pretty girls and half-wit conversations. How he ended up seated with a girl in his lap, watching a black and white film playing from the projector and reflecting in liquid shapes on the wall, he cannot explain. Party business, everything always happens according to plan, and as everyone loved him up, showered him with attention – he was, of course, the most esteemed guest – he felt like the whole world, this world, this small space where time did not exist and where pleasures ran wild, belonged to him. But then you appeared like a phantom of his past, of reality, like a frightening mirage shaping his pleasant dream into something more haunting. You walked right past the screen, your body a distorted shadow on the wall, swallowed up by darkness a moment later. And it stirred him so horribly that for a heartbeat he thought he would be sick. It felt like he witnessed something he should not have; caught an omen with his own two eyes._

_The arms hooked loosely around his neck squeezed gently and the girl in his lap landed a sweet kiss on the side of his jaw, but he did not feel it. Ignited with the sudden need to find you – for what? He did not know – he haphazardly unhooked her hold on him, flashing her a half-smile and removing her from his thigh. He spilled a few more drinks as he made his way through the sitting crowd and did not apologize for any of the ruined clothes or broken glass. He followed after you into the delirious unknown like a madman into the stormy sea._

_It took a while to find you, for you were but a gleam of smoke in darkness, surrounded by other bodies, of curious observers and connoisseurs of mystery. But when he did, you stood lovely and ethereal as the moon, with blinking grey lights over your head and dancing Hecaterides around, music so loud and incoherent he thought that it strangely resembled the heavy thuds of his heart._

_He approached you, enchanted, pushing past the slick bodies and their enticing giggles and looks of want. You were not exactly dancing, though not rooted in spot either, a perfect balance between the two, tangible and not. He touched your arm gently when he was close enough, more to make sure you were real than anything else. Your eyes were a labyrinth of promised adventure, and you smiled at him in a way no one ever had. Your skin was burning under his touch, and it struck him then that following you here was like flying into the sun – there was not enough air, it spoiled with blending scents. Electricity again, drumming on his fingertips, swelling in his chest. Your lips moved, and he squinted, leaning forward slightly, trying to hear what you were saying._

_“What?” He questioned aloud, his voice barely audible over the noise. Your eyes met, the sweet (color) darkened by the shade and blown out pupils, enticing, and a smile quirked on your lips, your hands slowly traveling from his upper arms to the sides of his jaw, though instead of answering you simply leaned in and kissed him._

_It was a vortex of everything after that, past the witching hour became a blur, a dream, a fleeting wonderful moment of your body molding in his hands and your sweet breath whispering his name into his ear. Violent shivers and desire, all of it._

That was two weeks ago and he has not felt warm since. It felt like you had taken something away from him, tainted him in a subtle but irreversible way. He could not feel as strongly or look at another woman and not try and search for your features in her face. No touches burned quite like yours, nor did they make his head spin just as quite. It had never occurred to him that he might like you until after that night, until days after he saw you in the lounge with an old book of poetry in your hand and thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful.

But you never said anything, continuing with your playful tirade and laughed at his dismay in that bell like laugh of yours. That night may as well have never happened, perhaps it didn’t and he imagined everything, though ever so often, when between friends and when you thought no one was looking, he would catch you staring with that same mystery in your eyes that nearly drove him crazy.

Pembury is a labyrinth, not only of architecture, but also of the mind, and he, despite his clarity, is absolutely lost in you.

The rain slowed gradually when he finished his second cigarette, but the clouds stayed, dark and thunderous. He made his way down the dewy grass, mind set on the dormitories, set to find you. What he would do once he did he wasn’t sure. He just wanted to see you, so desperately it made him ashamed to admit it.

The fourth building – the dormitory shared by the humanities – is icy, and he shivers lightly, his body cooled from the outside air. On the third floor he stops by your room, suddenly hesitant. All his cockiness – crumbled, just like that.

He does not get to knock on the door because it opens and a face emerges and hope flairs in his chest like a firework only to be doused just as quick. Not you. Wanda.

“Oh…” She blinks, her doe eyes alert an untrusting, though feigns a smile, shutting the door behind her, “Hey, Tony…What’s up?”

He shrugs, intent on playing, intent on not being found out, “Eh, just stopping by. Seen the _witch_ around?” An affectionate nickname; you despise his _Tony_ and he despises your ( _Name_ ). Wanda falters at his question, glances away, bites her lower lip and rolls it between her teeth. Her reaction unnerves him slightly, but he doesn’t show it.

“No, no she’s not here.” She carefully scans the hall as if to make sure no one is eavesdropping, and then leans in, her to tone even, hushed, “She didn’t come back to her room last night and I haven’t seen her all day.” He feels a pit opening in his stomach, an endless black hole, “I…I thought that maybe she was with you.”

“Why would she be with me?” He questions. His voice is harsh. _Defensive_. Wanda jerks slightly, eyes wide, apologetic.

“N-Not with you specifically,” She explains hurriedly, “–with any of you. Nat. Bruce. Steve… I don’t know. It’s not that weird. She-she’s probably…somewhere. You know how those literature students are.”

His brows knit together, “No, I don’t, how are they?”

“W…Well, I don’t know, I thought you did.”

His sighs, frustrated, exhausted, _worried_. She looks at the floor, useless as ever.

“Listen, just…If she shows up or something, tell her to find me.” He mutters.

She suddenly jolts as if hit by lightning, sputtering words so quick and so quiet he cannot catch a single one. She throws the door open and stumbles her room, rummaging, yelping, and lastly emerging a bit breathless. She shoves a torn page of a book into his hand, “Last night. At the library. She gave this to me and said to pass it on to you if I were to see you.” She then looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to examine the paper and reveal its secrets. Crossing her arms over her chest, she curiously tilts her head once he finally studies the page:

_Kubla Khan: Or, a vision in a dream; a fragment.  
By S. T. Coleridge_

It was the poem in its full glory, plain, with no scribbles of your skillful hand, the only remnant of you being your inky fingerprints all around it.

“Well?” She breaks the unnerving silence with her shaky voice, “What does it mean? Is it…some sort of secret club invitation, or something?”

“What? No. Why would it be—“ He sighs, shoving the page into his pocket, “why would it be anything like that? I’m not even in her major. I’m in math.” He glances away, “So…why give it to me?…” He adds, quieter.

That night. It was that night that this damned poem was on your mind and he could say anything of it.

“Are you sure…it’s meant for me? And she didn’t say anything else?”

Wanda shakes her head, “No, nothing. I was a little shocked, to be honest. I mean we…you and I, we don’t even…meet that often so…” A light shines in her eyes, illumination, and her thoughtful expression falls into dread, “Tony, I think something’s wrong.”

“Why?”

“Do you…Do you possibly think she gave it to me…knowing you’d come looking for her? That perhaps…”

And her voice rings loud and clear with her words.

“–this is all… intentional?”


	3. HECATE!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda Maximoff relives the time you have spent together.

**W** anda Maximoff always expects the worst – it is her design, an intricate detail of her character. A life lived with nothing but disappointments have shaped her fundamental view of the world. However, despite this, she dares to hope for a happy ending, even if it is a fruitless effort.

_She sat nestled between tall, old bookshelves, surrounded by silence and the pleasant scent of old parchment and ink. Wanda was, though, not the only occupant – the library is vast, a labyrinth of wooden shelves and pale statues and wilting flowers; she had seen a few students reading casually or intently writing essay after essay in desperate hope to finish before the deadline. Once she found a comfortable, lonely spot, and gathered her academic tombs, she sat down and had not moved for minutes, possibly hours. The night behind the windows was dark and unkind; the harsh patter of rain against glass – violent. What an ancient, cold place._

_A gentle sound – knuckles rapping on wood – rose her from her work and she glanced up, heart skipping a beat when she saw you standing right in front of her. She is not surprised. She knew it was you at the knocks - it was something only you did, your very own greeting card to the focused and unsuspecting. She grinned awkwardly, apologetic for not hearing you approaching, but you merely shook your head and gave her a tender smile. Your red sweater had irregular darkened patches – rainwater, she concluded – and your hair was a slight mess from the wind, cheeks rose, eyes twinkling with something she could not quite place. You raised your hand, offering her a torn page and with knitted brows she took it, quickly sweeping over the paper before they returned to you. A poem. Wanda had never been a particular fan of poetry, nor was she that literary inclined. She enjoyed an odd novel, could understand a meaning of a simple poem, though this…Was beyond her._

_Noting her confusion, you leaned in, your perfume, a mixture of sandalwood and spring air, invaded her lungs, making her head swim pleasantly, “Give this to Tony when you see him.” You said simply and the spell was broken. She jerked her head back, uttering a breathless “What?” before she glanced at the poem again._

_“Can’t you…give it to him yourself?” She pondered quietly, afraid to disturb the sacred silence of the library. Your expression changed little, if at all – you looked kind and truthful, even if this whole situation made Wanda wonder otherwise._

_“Just pass it for me, okay?” The emphasis on_ for me _was all it took, as the younger girl was flooded with a sense of purpose, sense of belonging, sense of_ want _. You_ want _her to help you, and who is she to refuse? You are her closest friend, her roommate. She knows, if the roles were reversed, you would do the same for her. Besides, it is not like you are asking her of some difficult task._

_“O-Okay…(Name).” She lastly agreed with a shy smile, “Yes, of course. I’ll give it to him when I see him.”_

Worry ebbs and flows within her like a river. She had concluded her mission and now she sits in her cold, blue room with Tony sitting on your bed and staring at the words on that paper as if they were something written in a foreign tongue. She regards him carefully, with unshielded curiosity, untrusting and cautious. She has heard many things about Tony, none of them were particularly good. And she recalls you, on many occasions, hissing his name and expressing your annoyance, and really now, that was as much as she needed to know. He was, in her eyes, shaped by you, and nothing in this world could change her opinion.

Tony, though, shared little of Wanda’s sentiment. He does not know her, nor find her all that interesting, as when he entered the room he hardly glanced at her, instead focusing on your side. It was neat, well, as neat as it can be, with books and flowers and small doodles all around. It felt unapologetically you. As if it could not possibly be anyone else’s.

It baffles Wanda _why_ Tony. Why not anyone else? Why not _her_? What significance does the mathematician really hold? She feels dirty, used in a way, as if part of some unraveling scheme.

“And you are positive—“ Tony starts, rubbing his hands together – it’s cold in the room, silent, like a crypt – his eyes finally landing on her, “She said _nothing_ else?”

“…Yes.” Wanda grits.

“I…just don’t understand.” He utters, running a hand through his hair, “How is this…any of this…intentional?”

Wanda sighs heavily, her shoulders falling, “Look,” She starts, her voice low and tired, “I know about it, okay? About everything. She told me. That you are all part of some…” She looked out the window, the only window in the room, and at the faraway trees brushing against the grey sky, “Secret club, or something. She called you her…Thespians. Said you try to uncover the mysteries of the universe.” She finished, her tone turning sour.

Tony raises a brow, “Bitter cause you’re not invited?”

She scowls, “No. I just…don’t see the appeal.”

Tony hums, “We’re rich. We’re smart. And we’re bored. What else are we supposed to spend our time on? Drugs? Alcohol? Parties? You’ve been to one, you’ve been to all. We’ve done plenty of partying, and when in the middle of the night you start questioning what exactly are you doing, that’s when you need to change something. That meaning you either find a different hobby, or more cocaine.”

“So you came up with…What? A hunt for pretty gems?”

“Listen, they’re called the _Infinity Stones_ , and once we find them you can fucking bet we’re not sharing shit with you.”

Her face falls, though not because of his proclamation, rather, “Keep your stones…” She mutters, eyes drilling into the paper in his hand, “We need to find (Name) first.”

He gulps. Looks away. Tries to collect himself, but nothing can truly hide from Wanda’s perceptive gaze, and so she sees past his helpless facade, sees the gears turning in his head, sees the nervous flicks of his lashes and idle clenches of his jaw. She had never seen Tony as anything but smug, though now…Looking at him she notes the rings around his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones. He looks ill. And worried.

He bites his lower lip, rolls it between his teeth, “We need to tell the others.” He says quietly. She nods. “Then…Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

She had never imagined herself sat between the socialites: Natasha, Bruce, Steve, Tony… Their table is at the center of the cafeteria, in the peripheral vision of everyone in the room. And she would be lying if she said she is not anxious – without you or her brother by her side, there is no one to calm her – and that her voice did not quiver lightly once she explained what was happening, all the while Tony listened, appearing unbothered.

“So…” Natasha finally said, her eyes going from her to Tony and back, ”You just…automatically assume that she’s gone?” She questions with a raised brow, leaning her elbows on the table, “Did you already comb the grounds or something? Called her parents…friends? Did literally anything else but declare her missing?”

There’s blame in Nat’s voice, a certain fierceness, authority. She invites to be questioned, to be proven wrong, but Wanda, begrudgingly, admits her to be right. Tony and Wanda did nothing. They merely tried to piece together an explanation for the poem and its meaning. But Wanda feels it, and her intuition had never led her astray – something is wrong, and the longer they wait, the possibility of you being in trouble only grows.

“We thought about it.” Wanda lastly says, glancing at Bruce, then at Steve. Both of them wear pensive expressions, uncertain, obviously concerned and not even hiding the fact.

“Thought, huh?” Nat continues, unrelenting, “What else did you think about?”

“Cut it, Nat.” Tony intervenes. Wanda blinks, surprised, “We wouldn’t have even told you in the first place if we didn’t think something was off. You know (Name). We all do. She doesn’t just go about leaving cryptic notes behind, nor does she spontaneously leave without telling us at the very least.”

Natasha is silent for a moment. Lastly, she slumps in her seat, crosses her arms over her chest, her steel like gaze now focused on Tony, “What are you hiding?”

“Only the fact that I _might_ be worried?”

“No, that’s obvious.” She states, “Share with us what you know, Anthony.”

He frowns, “Don’t call me that.”

“I won’t have to if you come clean.” She persists.

He looks conflicted for a moment, lastly, “Fine. So, there was this party—“

“Oh my God, never mind, forget it.” Natasha rolls her eyes.

“—Let me finish, please? Thank you. I was at a party, about two weeks ago, met (Name) there,” Everyone seemed to still at his words, “yeah, shocked, I know, anyway—met her, we had a little heart to heart, she was high, I was drunk, we didn’t fight, I know, insane. Well, amidst our conversation, she mentioned _Kubla Khan_. And that’s it.”

“…That’s it?” Steve asks, “And…what happened after?”

Tony shrugs, “I don’t know. She went to dance. I went to drink. Didn’t see her for the rest of the night.”

There was a lie somewhere in there, but Wanda could not tell where exactly. But Tony and you…Not as unbelievable as it would appear upon first glance, she realizes, a feeling alike envy blooming in her chest.

_“Oh, fuck.” Was what you said, noting the tall figure of Tony Stark smoking in the courtyard, in his favorite spot between arches. Wanda, beside you, sent a glare his way, grasping your sleeve and tugging you away – there are many ways to reach the dormitories, many shortcuts and long stretches, and she, like you, wanted to avoid the Stark kid as much as possible. Though you ignored her completely rational reluctance, ignored the confused call of your name and simply approached him, intending to pass, pretending as if he did not exist, but of course, you did not manage._

_Wanda, from afar, watched as with a grin, Tony grabbed your wrist, saying something that made you want to smack him, but he simply dodged, laughing. The scene perplexed her, unnerved her in some great, terrible way. You, clearly annoyed, though with hidden smile playing on your lips, yelped and cussed him out as he tried to extinguish his cigarette on your cheek._

_She stepped up, quickly, passing him and grabbing your hand and pulling you into the rain and away from danger. The cold drops melted on her burning skin, confusion, no, anger, no—_ something _bubbling in the pits of her stomach as she continued to drag you, daring to glance back only once. You flipped him the bird._

_“Insufferable bastard.” You muttered, “Thanks for the save, W.”_

_She wanted to ask why even entertain him in the first place, but decided against it. Deep down she knew that she would not like the answer, and she decided to save herself the huarache and never think of it again._

But it always catches up; heartache is unavoidable and jealousy is a natural product of love. Yes, she loves you, in a way friends love friends, possibly more, but she knows you belong to others just as much as you belong to her. But she never wanted to believe, to even _think_ that you preferred someone’s company to hers. The company of Anthony Stark of all people. That, possibly, stings the most.

Natasha either didn’t catch the lie or simply chose to ignore it. Wanda can tell she’s having a hard time believing any of this. A soft frown is present on her pretty features, jaw tight; she’s mulling it over. Her voice, her decision, matters the most as it seems.

“…I think we should wait.” Natasha says gently, her eyes jumping to each and every one of them, “It takes three days to declare a person officially missing. Even if we tell the staff – which yes, Tony, we should – they won’t do anything. Besides, we’re in college. People come and go all the time. I think we should investigate more before we jump to conclusions.”

“…Fine.” Tony relents. She then looks at Wanda.

“Okay.” Wanda says, her tone cool, a twinge of anger slipping out, “Okay we wait. But if something happens to her… That’s not only on you, Romanoff. It’s on all of us.”

She cannot sleep. The silence in her room is deafening. She lays in bed under three blankets and still feels cold, as if it had seeped past her skin and settled in her bones. But more than that, she feels terribly lonely. She had never been alone, truly alone, her brother and her tossed by fate, forged together, always there, always keeping each other company. And when they came to Pembury and were placed in separate dorms it was you who she clung to, unable bear the weight of solitude. She fears the night, the dark, the emptiness. And staring into the ceiling on her moonlit room, she listens intently, waiting for your footsteps, waiting for you to return.

Minutes tick by. Nothing rustles the sleepy dorm; no one awakes to go to the restroom. She sits up, feeling the hot sting of tears and quickly wipes her eyes. She spares a glance at your vacant bed. Dread settles in her, fear that she will never see you lay on it again.

It is similar to the feeling when she first visited your home one summer morning – a grand, white mansion, with pillars and arches and crumbling paint. Surrounded by lush greenery it laid hidden like a pearl, precious and beautiful and luminous to the suns playful light, reflective somehow, like a mirror. But the halls, and rooms, and staircases, and secret spaces were all hollow, simple, missing some integral part of warmth. Everything was big –the statues, the books, the cream colored vases and the budding chrysanthemums, they, too, the color of first snow – that Wanda felt incredibly small amidst that opulence. The space was too vast; her frame obscured, swallowed; like in an old church, or abandoned hospital.

But she, despite the weight settled on her shoulders, something primal and frightening awakening, crawling in the pits of her stomach, managed to squeeze out a smile once you looked at her, expectant, expression perfectly lovely, not a hair out of place.

“ _It’s beautiful_.” Wanda admitted, and she was right – it was beautiful, in a sort of unsettling way, in a way which left her feeling tiresome, as if those walls that absorb everything absorbed some of her warmth, too. She could not phantom why anyone would live here and not lose their mind, it being taken, robbed, lost from terror at the lack of clutter, lack of small, insignificant knick-knacks and colorful framed pictures; the lack of anything preciously human. It was beautiful, a sort of beauty that was a perfect fit for a statue, a painting, a background for art, but not people. Living things, among these walls, were just that – things.

It was evening, rose-orange light cascading and dyeing the garden and your house in dimmed colors that breathed in a twinge of life. Wanda gasped for air mixed with cut grass and chlorine, water raining down hair face and maroon hair sticking to her temples and her cheeks. Body, tense, rigid, afloat in the pool, smile bright and sunny as the previous day, her eyes alight with warmth that nestled her shoulder from the drifting summer heat. You sat perched on the edge of the pool, feet soaking in cool water, body heaving, drinking in the last rays of the sun. She swam to you, resting her arms on the white tiles and looking up, eyes meeting, sparks flying, something blooming. You smiled at her, one of your little tender smiles, and she felt the unease, the cloud that had hoovered over her all day, dissipate in the air, forever lost.

Then night, inky, dense, wild with stars, cool in a way all summer nights are, the moon half in bloom with its mythical glow. She laid on the dry grass and you laid beside her, so close she could feel your warm breath on her shoulder, pointing, gaze set on the stars and their patterns. Wanda showed you the zodiacs written in the sky; you took her hand gently and guided it to the North Star, reciting your favorite poem in a half-breath that was almost drowned out by singing crickets.

_Witch_. The word jammed through her teeth with such venom, such disgust that it made her shiver, hidden in your sheets, eyes set on the ceiling, unable to glance at you, unable to read your expression. She pulled the sheets to her closer - it’s so late and she is so vulnerable – and she felt the hot sting of tears shoot up her body and collect on her lower lash. _They used to call me a witch. Everyone._ Why now, why after a year of relishing in your company, why in the middle of the night and in your room she revealed that secret she did not know. She felt the need for its release build up over time before it became excruciating, as if she would die if she were not to share it, as if it was a curse that needed to be passed from one person to another. You said nothing, simply listened, acutely aware of her tear ridden face and choked voice. _I always liked the occult. I…thought it was interesting. They all hated me. Thought I was a freak. All because I was curious._ You had hushed her, laid your body on her heavy chest, like a blanket of love, and listened to her wild heartbeat, hands on her sides, shielding her from the danger of the world. _Burn the witch,_ she hissed, shutting her eyes, her catatonic spell suddenly breaking as her arms snaked around you and held you close, so close your bodies meshed together like wax, and she thought if she held you tightly enough you would soak up her torment, her pain, her fear, like a sponge and release it back into the world in form of divine justice, of karma, and those who wished her harm would finally stand their final judgement.

_Oh, my Hecate_ , you had muttered in a honey-coated voice, pulling apart just slightly to hoover above her like saving grace. Your fingers, graceful and feather light, carefully padding away her tears, your smile, moonlit, cherubic, so loving it made her heart ache with longing. _If you are a witch then you are the Goddess among them_. 

_No_ , the thought, but said nothing, simply gazed at you, trying to memorize every detail, every new revealed and shadowed corner of your face, as if it were a dream, as if she is yet to awake and once she does you will be nothing, lost in tendrils of smoke, forgotten instantly with first sunlight. The people in her life called her a witch because they could not understand her, could not fit her peculiar wishes and interest into a simple label. They mocked her, belittled her, tried to harm her and if it was not for her brother they would have succeeded a long time ago. But you, with such power hidden behind a tender face, with quick eyes seeking to uncover secrets, gifted with a voice that could convince of anything you desired, were the real witch. Hecate, in the flesh.

You had kissed the spot between her brows gently, your touch merely a ghost on her skin and laid beside her, urging her to go to sleep. Her breath was even, body still, but eyes remained open till morning, bloodshot and blank, as she, despite the urge to plunge into the darkness and comfort of sleep, stayed up all night, so taken, so in love, that all she could do was breathe and smile shyly, aglow from happiness. The night had allowed her to indulge selfishly, be by your side and pretend that you feel the same way she feels, even if she knew that, fundamentally, that was not true.

But the vastness of your home never fully escaped her, as when first light lit up your scarcely decorated room, she felt hollow, now sucked out of that warmth you had gifted her with.

That emptiness creeps up on her and the memory of the cold space of your home drapes her in such deep loneliness she, for a moment, believes that she is the only one in the world. She curls up in bed and hugs herself tightly, like a child, like a flower trying to cave into herself.

_You’re okay, you have to be_ , she thinks to herself, but her heart, a wild, painful drum, says _No, something is wrong, this is not right_.

It is a torturous night. Wanda thought it would never end, and in part it didn’t. The sight of your vacant bed sunlit struck more terror than anything so far. It cemented the fact. Made it absolute. _You will not be back_ , she is certain and she is panicking.

_What will I do without you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i love writing sad things for the AESTHETIC.... also unrequited love is like my fav thing orz lmao  
> feedback is always appreciated! xx


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